


A Flash, Silence, and a Boom

by HerGambitandSwanSong



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, American Revolution, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, John is from the future going back to the past, M/M, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Science Fiction, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Time Traveller John Laurens, War Veteran John Laurens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-14 16:25:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14773095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerGambitandSwanSong/pseuds/HerGambitandSwanSong
Summary: Growing up, John's history textbooks only ever dedicated a single page to the failed American Revolution. He was taught that the traitors of the past King was foolish and selfish in thinking that they could run a country without the rule of the British. That they fought only for themselves and a false sense of purpose.Nowadays, John only knows that the British are wolves under sheepskin, and he -the foolish, selfish toy-soldier- fought for them.He never thought himself to be like the failed centuries old Revolutionaries... until he is.





	1. How it always goes

**Author's Note:**

> Fic on time travel whooooaaa

It always starts the same way.

With a flash, silence, and finally a boom-

_Gunshots_

Jolting awake, sweat beating down his face, John surveyed the dark room with wide eyes. His heart pounded like a broken beat against his ribcage, one shaky hand clutching his chest, the other gripping a switchblade under his pillow white-knuckled.

The pounding of his heart and the adrenaline of panic held control over his body until slowly, like a dying flame died down leaving only a burnt candle wick surrounded in darkness.

Shakily, John let go of the blade, running his hand down his sweat-ridden face, listening to the hard rain battered at his window.

“Fuck,” He groaned to himself. He hated thunderstorms with a fiery passion. They reminded him too much of Lannion with the-

Another crack of thunder interrupted John’s thought with a jump, heart skipping a beat.

“ _Goddammit_ ,” He whispered lowly.

Grabbing his phone and sliding out the bed, he padded barefoot on the cold floor to the kitchen. It was dark, minus the flashes of lightning in the horizon accompanied by the unwanted thunder. With each flash of bright jagged light, his nerves tensed, the stiffness in his right knee aching.

He needed coffee.

The stove clock dimly read 0300 hours as he plugged in the coffeemaker and put the last of his grinds in. He’d have to go into town later in the week to grab some more, maybe to the quiet market that had them for 6 pounds. They were quiet there, never too noisy or crowded for John to handle, and Lois, the cashier with the service dog was always kind to him, especially on bad days.

John was still trying to figure out which type of day it was today.

Unlocking his phone and scrolling through the seemingly never-ending list of missed calls, he clicked playback, putting the phone on the counter and grabbing a cup from the cupboard.  

_“John Laurens Ramsey is not here right now,”_ The phone spoke mechanically, “ _Please leave a message after the tone.”_

There was a prolonged silence after the tone and John sluggishly looked over his shoulder at the phone.

“- _Hey John, its Francis.”_ The past caller finally said. _“Just wanted to know how you’re doing, we haven’t talked in a while and I… well I’m just worried about you, John. You gotta talk to us, it’s been months of silence. John… you can stop runnin-“_

Cancelling the voicemail, John stared at the phone blankly, ignoring the sound of the coffeemaker signalling its finish.

They didn’t understand. He wasn’t running -not anymore- that’s not what was happening. There were dozens of voicemails identical to Francis’ taking up space in his phone, laying dormant like a volcano, dangerous and unpredictable to its inhabitant.

He wanted to tell them to stop worrying, to stop feeling responsible for his wellbeing. But he couldn’t. He could never find the strength to say anything, so he said nothing instead.

It was impossible for John to trust anyone -including himself- completely, he had lost that ability 3 years ago on grounds soaked by blood and unfilled promises.

But would it be wrong to say he wished he was back in Lannion? Back in the bloodshed and heat that radiated off his rifle? A place where he served a purpose naively, and had people he trusted with his life?

Not this empty, dark house in the middle of the District of New England, surrounded by innocent people that did not deserve the life they were born into. Who could have had real hopes and aspirations in life if they had not been turned into the King’s many lackeys.

Even though, he himself was one of the King’s lackeys, back in Lannion, at least he was a purposeful lackey.   

John sat down at the small kitchen table with his coffee, hand absently rubbing the metal surface of his right knee.

He watched as another flash of lighting lit up the night sky and counted the silence.

_1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7-_

The loud crash of thunder sent shivers down his spine and he took a deep, shaky breath.

He wasn’t running, he was hiding

From Francis, his family, the King, and the boom.

 

It was only a matter of time.


	2. You Fix What is Broken

Cleaning the oil off his calloused hands, John tucks the cloth into his back pocket, eyeing the Land Rover one last time. It was just an oil checkup and change -a simple task to complete for people with time. Ironically however, it was always a task those without time were forced to complete.

“You done, Ramsey?” His mechanic supervisor, Charles asked, noticing John’s stillness. Charles was a short, stocky man with thick brows and a default stern expression. To some he would seem unkind and intimidating, but past his appearance he was rather soft-spoken and understanding.

When John had applied for the job, Charles had looked him up and down after having glanced at his resume and posture. His thick brow rose, and he simply asked, “Can you stand for long?”

“Yes sir,” John had answered.

“Great, let’s go sign your life away again.” He kidded with warm intentions.

That was a year and a half ago, and even to this day, Charles still had never pried in John’s resume experience or past. Unlike most, Charles had understood the boundaries between the personal and the professional, never encroaching past John’s No Man Land.  

“I’ll go call the client in. You can punch out now.” Charles jabbed his oil stained thumb towards the backroom smoothly. “Oh, and thanks for working overtime yesterday, I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

In the backroom, John unlocked his locker, grabbing his spare clothes and heading towards the staff washroom. He slipped into a stall, sitting of the edge of the toilet seat and progressively taking off his uniform. The pants were the worst part. Having been poorly made, the frayed hemming tended to get caught on jagged parts of his prosthetic, only causing more damage to the worn pants. He had to carefully guide his leg out of the pant hole, avoiding the fray string like Operation; just waiting for a loud buzz.

After a few minutes, John was changed and shoving his uniform into his bag, whilst making his way out the washroom.

He passed the Land Rover, watching from the corner of his eyes as Charles handed a man in a black suit the keys to the car. The man, most likely the owner of the vehicle spared Charles a single glance, eyes instead falling on John.

The man looked him up and down, noticing the favor in his left and the limp in the right, eyes studying the stiff movement of John’s leg intensely. A feeling in John’s gut twisted, paranoia rises in his chest, as he kept his pace and façade.

Charles notices the man boring such intensity into John, and steps in between the man’s line of sight. “That’s John, best mechanic in this shop- hell better then me.”

“Uh huh…” The man mumbles uninterested in Charles, he makes eye contact with John, holding it firmly. John holds his back. “Fine job you did here, fixing what’s broken.”

John holds back the screaming in his gut, the years of distrust and training that conditioned him to act wary around everyone and pushes it down professionally for Charles, “It was never broken, it just needed a tune-up, sir.”

He looked to Charles, “I’m heading out now.”

“Have a goodnight, kid.” Charles nodded.

Keeping his pace, John left, cagily looking over his shoulder at the man. He only sped up after passing two blocks and slipped into his favorite market through the back entrance.

John wanted to get home, away from people and that man and lock himself inside, where ultimately, he’d phone in sick for the next few days and refuse to leave his house.

This only happened really once every two months. Extended periods of time where John would retract from the outside world and hide in his house, both terrified and paranoid to leave. It was hard for him to adjust to a life he found himself foreign too, even after 3 years. His façade of normalness could only go so far before exhausted or torn down.

Certain things would push him over the edge: A public announcement from the King, the way someone looked at him, hell even homeless vets on the streets.

He’d become so transfixed with them that he would lose focus of everything around. His brain would burn the image or voice of the trigger into his memory, forever on repeat, encapsulating his life until finally one random morning of peace. He knew it was not healthy, to lock oneself in their house with only a fridge filled enough for a cat’s daily meal, staying up because he was positive someone was going to break in, not shaving or bathing, ignoring the phone calls from Charles like every other person in his life. It was abnormal, and John knew it. But it was like he didn’t have control. Didn’t have control of his actions, thoughts or surroundings. It all just became a blur of-

“-John? John, the coffee grinds will be 5 pounds.” The voice of Lois snapped him out of his daze. Eyes finally focusing on the petite blond lady on the other side of the cashier counter.

“Uh- yeah… yeah, sorry about that Lois.” He stammered, quickly taking out a couple of bills and putting them on the counter.

Lois tilted her blue head, eyes looking into John’s, “John, you alright?”

“Yeah,” He lied, and Lois shot him a look.

“It’s alright John, everyone has a bad day” Lois said tenderly. “I have them all the time, that’s why Stevie is with me.”

She gestured to the golden retriever sitting obediently at her feet, his tongue hanging out with soft pants. “It’s not a sin to be scared or upset. We’re allowed to feel something- allowed to be human.”

“I wasn’t like this before.” John tried to explain lamely. He knew Lois would never judge or belittle him, but he felt the need to justify his anguish and state.

She gave John a small smile, eyes sad with unspoken memory. “No one ever is, we’re just faces of who we were before, seen by who we are now.”

“Wise words coming from a cashier,” John joked lightly and Lois’ smile grew an inch bigger.

“If only you knew how many wacky cashier stories I have. Man, I could become the King’s entertainer.”  

“I’m sure you could.”

She handed him the grocery bag with the coffee grinds and smiles once more. “You take care of yourself, alright?”

It’s no surprise that Lois knows he’s going to be absent from the market for a couple of days. She was the only person that could read right through him; probably because of similar shared experiences. Just from Stevie’s presence, he figured she knew the hardships of waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweat, the hopeless feeling of not wanting to leave the house or getting out of bed for that matter. But she prevailed and continued.

And for that, she deserved so much more.

John simply nodded, “I will.”

Even with the grounding presence of Lois and Stevie. The moment he walks out the store, his mind reverts to the thought of the man. Paranoia returns like a buzzing mosquito, following him home and driving him crazy.

He opens his door, glances over his shoulder warily and goes in, locking the 3 deadbolts on the top, middle and bottom of his door. He shuts all the window blinds and turns off all his lights, placing the coffee bag finally on his kitchen counter.

John sits on the edge of his mattress and stares at the broken clock hanging above his closest.

 

He’s a mechanic, he could fix it.

But it’s stuck in the past,

And he’s trapped in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many of the products mentioned in the fic like the Land Rove are British materials. I didn't go too in depth of what would be in this world vs what would not if America was never really created and independent bc that would take hours and I just don't have the time. Still, I thought it would be rather interesting if I did include some minor changes to the world like production/materials, time/time, and currency :)
> 
> Also it's fair to say many people in New England like Lois and Charles have some sort of past with trauma. It's not the greatest place to live anymore.


	3. Even if Your Fingers Bleed

Three nights into his seclusion, John wakes up prematurely and knows it’s not because of the rain this time.

There’s an eerie silence in his house and the air seems too thick for comfort.

Sliding his hand slowly under his pillow, he grasps the hilt of the switchblade, pressing the button for the blade to swing open. He can hear the creak of the uneven wood floors pressed down by moving weight faintly in the kitchen and slowly drags himself over to the edge of the mattress, careful not to rustle the covers too much.

The drop from the bed to the floor is a little louder than he wished, but with his prosthetic laying detached at the foot of his bed, he can’t exactly be subtle.

The creaking footsteps in the kitchen grow louder as the distance between John and the intruder shortens, and hastily John puts his prosthetic on, switchblade sandwiched between his teeth, hands shaking with adrenaline.

Slowly, the door to his bedroom opens and John ducks behind his bed, waiting for the intruder to walk around. If he can catch the stranger off guard, then he could potential disarm and knock the person out, giving him enough time to run.  

The moment the stranger steps into full view, John lunges, wrapping his arms around the person’s waist and slamming them into the backwall with a crash. His hands fly from the waist to the person- a man he now sees- nape, pulling the man’s head down into his elevated knee and pushing away.

The man stumbles back against the wall groaning heavily, nose most likely broken and gushing blood, and John grabs the switchblade from his mouth. John ignores the small cut between his lips that he gives himself trying to grab the blade too quickly, and raises it, ready to strike the man.

His heart is pounding against his ribs, but his hands no longer shake, settling back into the feeling he was accustomed to 3 years ago. It’s unsettling how quickly his body can revert to its state of survival within seconds but takes years for him to even come close to a normal, semi-function civilian life; like he was programmed from the start to fight and not live.

Before he can slam the switchblade into the man’s shoulder, a hand shoots out from behind, grabbing his wrist and twisting his arm behind. He should have never thought it was just one person in his house, there was always a partner in crime to back the intruder up.

The blade clattered against the floor as John turns on his heel to face the new intruder.

It’s the man in the suit from the auto-shop he saw three days ago. Meaning his gut was right to be paranoid.

“John, stop,” The man commanded, raising his fists as to defend himself. But John had selective hearing, especially to assholes that broke into his house in the middle of the night to possibly hurt him.

Instead, he threw a kick at the suited man with his prosthetic, making sure to really emphasize the pain of metal on flesh. Not judging his strength however, his artificial foot snapped at the ankle on impact and he lost balance, tumbling into the man.

John pushed away, crashing to the floor and banging the back of his head firmly against the wood.

An explosion of ringing screeched in his ears as his sight started to become blur and faded around the corners, hands grappling to purchase anything on the floor he could use to defend himself.

“Stand down, soldier.” The suited man commanded again from above, kicking the switchblade and broken foot away from John’s reach.

“Go to hell,” John growled, words coming out in more of a slur. His sight started to blur more, and he struggled to remain conscious.

“That’s what we’re trying to prevent,” The suited man replied calmly.

Before John could shoot the man a snarky comeback cocktailed with insult, his accomplice behind John stumbled over clutching his bloody nose with one hand.

The last thing John remembers is the bloody man throwing a punch-

And then nothing.

 

**

 

“Sergeant John Laurens Ramsey, Squad Beta, 017822018,” He mumbled instinctively once coming to.

 _“Wakey, wakey Johnny Boy.”_ A deep voice from above quipped.

John’s ears rung piercingly, an overwhelming wave of vertigo washing over him as an unpleasant gift. He lobbed his head back, resting it against a thin metal surface and blindly looking towards the light source above him.

“Bite me,” He groaned, tasting the bitter iron taste of blood in his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut tighter.

“Sorry, but no can do, Serge,” The voice chuckled lowly. “Gotta keep you in one piece, but maybe later.”  

“Doing a bang-up job then,” Cracking one eye open, and letting the light-headedness and blurriness pass, John looked to the voice, eyes falling on a burly man covered head to toe with black tactical gear.

Despite the expensive and valuable gear, John can tell right away that he isn’t in the army or has had any proper experience. The burly man’s back isn’t straight, and his shoulders are slouched, weighed down by the weight of the gear. His legs aren’t spread, which is an advantage for John since it made it easier for the man to fall if John lashed out. The only issue he’d really have is with the man’s size and protection. Even an idiot with a tactical gear is a hard idiot to take down.

John shifts, noticing the absent weight of his prosthetic, meaning they had taken off the remaining bits of the leg once he was knocked out. This was making everything a little more difficult than he liked.

“Lewis, please stop being difficult with the Sergeant,” A voice- the suited man from the auto-shop and his house said to his left.

At the sight of the man, John thrashed forward furious, only to be jerked back by his wrists cuffed to the metal pole. He kicked with his foot, struggling to slip out of the cuffs.

The suited man and “Lewis’ looked at each other, the latter shooting a sly grin at the first. “Looks like he’s being difficult with you.”

“Funny,” The suited man said dryly. “You may go now.”

‘Lewis’ nodded, and John watched slowly as his biggest threat left the room. Turning to face the suited man, John gave him a smile, purposefully showing his bloody teeth from the gash on his lip.

“I like ‘im,” He mumbled, “Not afraid to dish it back.”

The man ignored John’s attempt at intimidation, instead crouching down to John’s level and examining him. John squirmed under the intense gaze, not pleased to be scrutinized so thoroughly.

“How do you feel about time-travel?” The man finally spoke after a seemingly never-ending amount of silence.

John had to admit, he never expected the man to say that of all things.

_“S’cuse me?”_

“Time-travel.” The man repeated. “Going back in time -would you do it?”

John looked around the empty room before settling back on the man, “Sorry pal, but I don’t see any blue telephone booths around here.”

“Yes, but theoretically, if you could, would you go back to prevent countless deaths of innocent people? Even if it meant going against the monarchy.”

John couldn’t help but blanch. There was a lot of detail for just the ‘theoretically,’ so much so it was starting to seem less ‘theoretically’ and more _realistically_.

“You’re asking a soldier of the King’s Guard who _fought_ _for_ the monarchy if I would ‘theoretically’ over throw it?” He questioned deadpanned. “Theoretically, do you know you’re a dumbass?”

A faint chuckle came from one of the grey wall’s tinted one-way windows, meaning there were people watching and amongst them, someone found John’s dry humor hilarious. He didn’t know whether to feel humbled or confused.

“I’m not asking a soldier of the King’s Guard, I’m asking a man who understands war as what it is.”

Annoyance boiled in John and he glared at the man, “No, I wouldn’t,” He lied.

The man didn’t seem to believe him, seeing through his façade like the one-way window behind them.

“What if I reworded the question,” He offered. “Would you go back in time to stop your entire squad’s death in Lannion?”

John lurched towards the man, an explosion of rage erupting at the mention of Lannion and his squad. The cuffs went taunt around his wrists and he was jerked back to the pole with a thud, all while the man remained neutral, not a flicker of emotion or surprise crossing him.  

“Listen here, buddy,” John growled darkly. “You mention them one more time, and the moment I get out of these cuffs, you’ll be the one waking up in an empty room.”

The man blinked once again examining John like an experiment. “I’m not trying to become your enemy John, I just want an answer. Would you?”  

It took a stubborn moment, but finally, after slumping against the pole and refusing to look the man in the eyes, John answered, “Yes… I would.”

In his peripheral, the man dug into his coat pocket, taking out a small rectangle photo.

John’s brow rose, and he quieted down, eyes following the picture like a hawk.

“What’s that?” He questioned suspiciously.

The man set the photo in front of John on the floor and let John lean in to look. “A photo of one of your ancestors, your great great grandmother’s brother- or something.”

The picture was photocopied and minimized, creases prominent from being folded into small squares for some time. The man in the painting was dressed in practically ancient military attire. The blue fabric and gold buttons sewed into a simple waistcoat. However, it was not the clothes the man wore that peaked John’s interest, but the surprising resemblance to his own face that caught him off guard. The man looked scarily identical to John. So much so, skepticism bubbled within John.

“Nice photoshop you got there,” He snorted wryly. “Almost got me fooled.”  

The man shifted, sitting fully down and crossing his legs. “What do you know about the failed American Revolution?”

“Exactly what you just said: it failed.”

“And the rebels?”

“-Traitors to the King. All got executed, the end.”

The suited man tapped the small copied painting with the tip of his fingernail. “Your ancestor- John Laurens, was one of the rebels. However, he died before he could properly join the Continental Army and volunteer under General George Washington. We believe that if he had gotten to Washington, he would have become an important asset and aide in the Revolution.”

“So… what?”

“So,” The man began, “If the Revolutionaries won, there is a possibility that the world would change for the better. There would be no more wars against France, no more innocents’ dead, no one man who believes himself to be God; there would be none of it, just peace and happiness. We need you, John to fight the war to end all wars.”

There was silence. Not a single breath too loud to hear nor the shifting of fabric. Just two men in an empty room, one with the offer of universal happiness, the other, with the decision of a lifetime and anything after it.    

“Is that what happens when there is no war to fight?” John whispered finally, looking up at the man.

The man nodded simply, eyes for the first time since John woke up bright and vibrant with hope. He truly believed he could make the world better- make it a world worth living in.

“Yes,” The man said, “They dance and they sing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going to rush a little bit into the story to get to the plot and the whole time-travel aspect of it.   
> I'm going to try my best to make it as accurate as possible, but given there is a lot of information and important events in the Revolution, I probably will miss some stuff, forgive me. As well, bc this is fan fiction and sci-fi, I will be spicing it up with twists and other ideas. :)  
> ALSO, John is a sassy asshole when needed, granted he was kidnapped so I think he has the right to be


	4. It's Who You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm rushing pre-time travel bc I wanna get into it

“Even if I said yes, I doubt a bunch of ancient old guys would believe that their newest aide has only one in a half legs?” John questioned, his head cranked back the farthest he could go, watching as the suited man unlocked his cuffs.

The metal rubbing against his wrists went slack, slipping off and onto the floor with a clank. John brought his red wrists to his chest, rubbing them tenderly as he watched the man carefully.

“Don’t worry about your calf or lack thereof. When your tour ended 3 years back and you were transferred to a civilian hospital for rehabilitation, one of the nurses in our cause copied your medical records and sent them to us. We designed and fitted a prosthetic that won’t bring unwanted attention to you and would remain self-sufficient during your stay in the 18th Century.” The suited man explained, wrapping his arm around John’s armpit and helping him up.

“Did you just say you stole my _hospital records_?”

The suited man ignored John’s comment, instead looking towards the one-way window and gestured vaguely at it. John really was tempted to put all his weight on the man and send him to the floor where he could throttle the man successfully. But he couldn’t because the man only seemed somewhat crazy, and that outside the room there were probably a dozen people and only one of himself.

If he wanted to figure out more, he’d need the man’s name to start.

“Okay, aside from you apparently knowing everything about me, I don’t know a thing about you.” He said pointedly. “And if you want this relationship to work buddy, you’re going to need to tell me your name.”

The door opened, and the man stared at John blankly as a young girl in red track pants came prancing in.

“Look, I’m not asking to meet your family, I’m just asking for a name that’s all.”

The man stayed silent to John’s annoyance.

Before he could pry anymore, a soft hand travelled under John’s arm, wrapping around his chest, taking some of his weight off the metal pole. The girl in the red sweat pants smiled sweetly up at John as he glanced down in surprise. She looked at least 7 years younger than John, with black hair parted in the middle and dark eyes that gleamed despite the absent of white. She carried a youthful innocence to her that John hadn’t seen much before.

“I’m Elizabeth, ignore my brother James. He’s just trying to seem mysterious and dark, but we all know he’s not after that sap show 10 minutes ago.”  

“ _Eliza_ ,” ‘James’ hissed and Elizabeth frowned.

“What?” She whined, “It’s true.”

  Through the bickering, which was the epitome of sibling chatter, they guided John out the gray room and into a wider, more open area. The man in tactical gear from earlier named Lewis was close by, standing beside a long table with a fairly big metal case.

“Sorry for the kidnapping by the way, they were going to talk to you before you left work that day, but you rushed out and then locked yourself in your house for like 3 days- speaking of which, do you think you have agoraphobia or like PTSD, because being that paranoid of people and spacing out totally seems like you do, or have you always been reclusive and a little bit of an ass-“

“Hey kid, could you just… maybe, I don’t know, shut up?”

She closed her mouth promptly shutting up to John’s bitter relief. He had to admit he did secretly enjoy the girl’s lively rambling. It was a rarity, finding someone who wasn’t weighed down by the weight of the world. She spoke nonstop as though she was running out of time.

“Yeah, sorry,” She said quietly as they guided him towards the table and the metal case. “Long story short, you’re in what we like to call Washington.”

“You named your base of operations after a rebel general?” John asked incredulously. “That’s uh…”

“Awesome?” Elizabeth supplied cheerfully.

“I was going to say cliché.”

A loud forced cough snatched the attention of the pair, turning heads to Elizabeth’s brother.

“If you don’t mind me interrupting, I’d like to get back to the issue at hand.” James stated sternly, motioning towards the metal case. Eliza’s eyes lit up in excitement, a smile forming on her face.

She let go of John, opening the case, “Oh you’re going to love this.”

The case clicked open and Elizabeth presented it proudly in front of John, beaming like a proud mother that just witnessed her child win an award.

Both John and James peered in, looking at the contents of the case. Sitting on a soft cushion, was an almost exact replica of his right calf, down to the very scars he had on his ankle after falling down a jagged slope in his military training. The hue of the skin was a match to his own, discolored slightly where veins would appear. It was stunning in a morbid sense. At the kneecap where his flesh leg would join together was a metal cap, small wires sticking out unattached.  

“Who made this?” John couldn’t help but mumbled impressed.

Elizabeth straightened out, puffing out her chest and jabbing a thumb at herself. “Me, myself and I.”

John turned in amazement to Elizabeth. A hyperactive kid had made this? There were brilliant educated people in the world that could barely come close to creating something so lifelike, he just couldn’t believe it. “But you’re like 16?”

“I’m 17.” She corrected as though it would make it any better; it did not.

“You can’t even legally drink yet.” John continued.

“I can at home,” She argued, crossing her arms. “The leg is wrapped in a silicone layer that replicas your skin, along with minor molding underneath to give it that lifelike feel. Once I look at the connector casing on your leg, I’ll attach the prosthetic and run some tests to make sure that your neurotransmitters are able to connect and control the leg.”

“Oh my god,” John muttered, mouth parting with speechlessness.

“We’ll do that now, so my brother can brief you on everything else. There isn’t much we can prep you on so its going to be a little touch and go when you’re in the past.”

“Why not?”

Eliza helped John into a chair, bending down to examine his leg.

James took a seat beside him, hands folded tightly, hard eyes locked on John’s. “You already have military training- one that exceeds 18th century fighting. Not to mention that this is history we’re talking about, it isn’t a step by step linear dialogue. Not everything is documented, and we can’t predict what happens in the past; you just have to be quick and adaptable in situations.”

So, everything was going to be touch and go, based solely around his quick thinking and judgement. The sudden weight of pressure grew heavier on John and he frowned anxiously. This was totally not going to fall apart around them.

“What we can help you with is fitting in. We’ve complied a book that will guide you in how to speak and interact with those in the past. Be warned however, history is told by the winners, so what you’ve been taught to believe now may not actually be the truth. The book will also contain information and important dates we believe play a significant role in victory for the Revolutionaries.”

“When am I… going back?”

“Tomorrow night.” James stated bluntly, and John reeled back in surprise. He was under the impression that it would take some time for everything to play out and come together. But it appeared instead that everything was ready, he was just the final piece they needed to finish the puzzle.

John grimaced, thinking about the things he’d possibly be leaving behind, “What about my house or my job? Won’t people notice I’m gone?”

Elizabeth stopped her inspection, looking up with soft sullen eyes. “Serge, people that go missing aren’t usually found, either because they don’t want to be found, or people give up looking.” She explained softly. “I don’t know much about you aside from your records, but… I get the feeling that you live a lonely life -whether intentional or not.”

Mutely John nodded. As much as he wanted to deny what the kid was saying, there was the indisputable truth in her words. He was a hermit. He didn’t have many friends and he had cut off contact with his family even before becoming a solider. About the only people he talked to was Charles and Lois, both of whom were not directly associated to him. One was his boss, the other a cashier he talked to the few days he did go shopping. They wouldn’t feel as though they had lost a piece of themselves if John went missing, just another entity to fill their day in the most humane way possible.

“Yeah,” He mumbled nodding gradually. “Yeah, you’re right.”

 

**

The next day or what John thought was a day considering there was no windows or clocks in Washington went by fairly quickly. Elizabeth had promptly attached her prosthetic creation -one John was still had trouble wrapping his head around- giving him the run down on the design and the feel, attempting to make sure that John was comfort using it.

As he walked back and forth the small room they were stationed in, Elizabeth went through listing all the modifications and tech she had added to her design faintly in the background. He ignored her chattering for the most part, instead too encapsulated by the feel of a fully functional working leg.

It wasn’t like his old prosthetic that made it practically impossible to bend and gave him a limp 24/7. This design allowed him not only to bend his knee but also contort his ankle and foot like his flesh one. It was as though he had grown back the missing part of his leg with a metal substitute.

“Sergeant,” Elizabeth said, voice insistent and a little louder than before. His attention snapped from the leg to her, brows high in surprise.

She looked him up and down, hands on her hip knowingly. “Are you listening?”

“Yes?”

“No, you’re not,” She argued, dark eyes rolling with an ungodly amount of sass. “Now that I have your attention, I included stabilizers in the design so that you wouldn’t shatter your bones in case you did use excessive force with the leg. It’s a metal leg so it’s going to hurt a hell of a lot more than anything flesh and bones can do.”

“What happens if it breaks while I’m there? It’s not like I have the materials needed to fix it.”

“In the book are multiple What If’s solutions that you can use to help you fix it in the most efficient and easy ways possible. Aside from that, you’re a mechanic you can probably sort something out.”

“Great,” John muttered, eyes falling to the prosthetic that looked and acted exactly like his own. Fixing it would _not_ be hard at _all_.

“Oh, and don’t let anyone see the leg or get it. Partially because of the whole ‘messing with time thing,’ but mostly because I don’t want some asshole stealing my work.” Her voice went surprisingly low, expression falling serious at the thought of some 18th century dude taking credit for genius work. “Anyways, let’s go get you suited up and ready. James should be waiting for us.”

The uniform itself was not what John had been expecting. It was not like the tactical camouflaged gear he had in the army, and by all means was it not subtle. The only practical gear the uniform had was the knee-high boots for travelling in mud probably. The rest: a long blue waist coat with shiny golden buttons and cufflinks someone could see reflecting from a mile away, a sword that hung by his side with flimsy leather and long cotton pants and a shirt that would boil him from the inside out like an egg.

“I feel stupid,” He complained, picking at the bright cufflinks with irritation. “How is this fit for war?”

Elizabeth and James watched behind with mild pleasure at John’s discomfort.

“If there’s one thing the rebels knew well, it was that they should die fashionably.” Elizabeth complimented, and James frowned at his sister’s nonsense.

“I highly doubt that was the reason.”

“No, it was definitely.” She insisted. “I’m the smartest here, I know.”

James rolled his eyes, but he ignored his sister’s cry for attention, taking out a small pocket book from his pocket instead. He handed the book to John and John examined it carefully.

The cover was simple and blue, with a hollow circle of white stars in the middle. He flipped through the pages quickly skimming the contents. Just like the siblings had said, the pages contained instructions on how to fix the leg, the history of the war despite being corrupted and changed by the British Empire and finally society’s standards and practices in the 18th century that he’d have to follow to fit in.

“Okay, cool.” He said breathlessly looking up at the pair. This was all going to happen. He’d actually be time travelling. “Where’s the machine that will send me back?”

Elizabeth took his right hand, strapping a small circular device on it. “This bad boy,” She said excitedly. “It’s got two uses -one there, and one back. I trust you not to break it cause it has the power of pretty much 4 nuclear explosions and I really don’t want that on my conscious honestly.”

John’s mouth hung open and he nodded dumbly, eyes wide in wariness at the tiny little device that could wipe out thousands, “Uh... huh.”

“Tap it whenever you’re ready and it’ll inject a dose of adrenaline into your system to raise your blood pressure. After you feel the effects you should be sent back.” She explained, and John nodded dumbly.

Wordlessly he tapped the device, instantly feeling a small prick below the device.

The effects weren’t immediate, that didn’t concern John. However, he couldn’t help but feel worried as James took his arm and lowered him carefully to the floor, cushioning the back of John’s head as he lowered it directly to the floor.  

“Why am I laying down?” He asked, a cold shaky feeling starting to spread from his fingers. Elizabeth crouched down beside John, taking a small flashlight from her pant pocket and shining it in his eyes carefully.

The light burned intensely at his weakening sensitivity and he tried to turn away from the shine. But his eyes remained glued to Elizabeth, staring blankly ahead. A hissing noise around his ears started to grow in concentration from silence and his tongue started to grow heavy in his mouth.

Elizabeth nor James looked concerned, mumbling distant words to each other while watching John intently. He tried to read their lips, attempting to grasp any information at what was happening, but their figures shook and spilt, faint silhouettes of themselves circling John’s blurry vision.  

“Hold on a little more Serge, the seizure isn’t going to last long. Just long enough for your heart to adapt to a new frequency.” Elizabeth’s voice reassured reverberating in his head with the ever-escalating hissing.

Panic surged throughout John and he attempted to move instinctively. The ‘effects’ was having a seizure? He didn’t want that. Absolutely fucking not.

He tried to protest but only sounds of distress escaped his throat as his body lurched to the right involuntarily.

The edges of John’s vision grew darker, a sudden drowsiness washing over him like an overload of sleeping pills.

With the overload of sensory input, ringing and loss of control John just barely missed the tingling sensation flowing over him. It wasn’t the coldness in his fingers like he had felt seconds before. This was more of a vibrating- like sticking a brick in a washing machine and watching as the machine ripped itself apart from the inside.

It was excruciating so John screamed.

And then there was silence.

**Author's Note:**

> How I see it is that, because the British ruled over what we know as America and Canada (which have both been annexed in the fic) everything is British related. That means, the money, the time, measurement etc. So what you are seeing is John's life as a British citizen in alternate America. As well, John lives in what we know as the District of Columbia/ DC/Washington, but because Washington's army had lost, it was never named after him, ergo becoming the District of New England
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)


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